Travelogue post #2
The unofficial "mayor" of Ferndale, WA is a man by the name of Arthur. Art picked me up out of Salmon Creek, Washington in a white VW bus. To me, it kind of looked like a Marshmallow with wheels. To me, it was 7+ hours of straight conversation.
Art had a wonderful story, about being born an American citizen, but moving back to Poland to be educated underneath Communism. Everything he said had a heavy accent, and very rarely was at a loss for words. It seemed as though his raconteur abilities were always conflicted--his heavy Eastern European accent with his immaculate English. It turns out that he had lived in Ferndale, WA for a number of years, and North America for even more than his European days. However, it is Ferndale, WA in which we begin our story.
Ferndale, WA is small-town America, population approximately 11,000. Art had moved into a property along the main business drag, and stirred controversy with his construction company. In his words, "95 percent of the population probably has never even been to Canada". Ferndale is only 20 miles away. Cosmopolitan and foreign are not things known to Ferndale. When we drove through at night, he pointed to the businesses. "This is the only bar in town," and, "there is where it happened". There was a Haggen supermarket, and "it" is the story.
It turns out that Art had ruffled more than a few feathers with his cosmopolitan attitude, embracing change, and "invading" Ferndale. His most recent production was a skatepark for the young skateboarders. They loved it, and he even went as far as to keep a wooden ramp in front of his house to vex the local bureaucrats, who resisted the need and enthusiasm of the locals. "Never again," he said, elbow-nudging me with a smile, "oh, I did it, but never again!"
From ruffled feathers come the squawk and then the pecking. Pecking, in deed. Art's friend, a former CIA operative, 20 years, had started a restaurant in town along the main drag. In order to celebrate, Art went to the aforementioned Haggen and purchased two 12-packs of beer. On line at the cashier, he noticed a young girl looking sad. Empathetic, especially because he has two teenage daughters, he said, "oh, why are you so sad, young girl?"
Immediately, according to his description, the mother of the young girl began to yell, thinking that Art was trying to seduce their daughter. Art grabbed his 24 beers and moved to another counter to be on the safe side. He purchased them, and made his way to his car. In his car, a large man demanded he step out of the vehicle. That large man had just so happened to be an off-duty police officer, unbeknownst to Art.
Continuing his intent, Art made his way to his friend's new restaurant to drink the beer and celebrate. However, a knock came at the door. It was two police officers, looking to arrest Art for the suspicion of a attempted rape under the auspices of a DUI. Art was thrown in jail, and charged with his crime, which could lead to him, a US citizen, to having to register as a sex offender, tarnishing his business...
(TO BE CONTINUED--I have to catch a bus to Bellingham)
...Worse, because of his international business, Art's travel would be impeded constantly by the customs agent's question, "Sir, have you ever been arrested before?"
So, the bureaucrats had accomplished a part of their mission. Worse, now he had to go to court. Luckily, Art's connections were in his favor, and he was able to secure the best legal defense. Jury selection was an arduous process, especially since two of its more colorful residents--a cop's family and a contractor with over 20 cars parked on his property--were inevitably tied into every facet of the community. However, 11 were selected, and on went the trial.
(If there was a setting like italics or boldface for "bias-filter" based on the description of courtroom event--or, this entire article, it would slime this entire article. But hey, a good story is a good story, and truth is a state of mind. Almost.)
On the stand, each of the prosecution's witnesses went up and related the incident . The mother displayed bipolar tendencies by breaking out of her composed character to yell at Art directly, pointing her finger, from the witness stand. The daughter told her story as an embarrassed teenager would, with an intonation of a rehearsed, propped-up observer of the events; not a victim. The father, without saying too much, was pulled off the stand by the prosecutor for incriminating himself before being cross-examined by the defense attorney. Even the cashier confirmed Art's version of the story, that he, indeed, was the victim.
After 10 minutes, the jury reached a verdict. Art was innocent, and every member of the jury stood to apologize to him directly. His defense lawyer said it was by far and away the most extensive outpouring of sympathy for a defendant in all of his years as an attorney. That, of course, could be subject to bias as well--any woman or pickup artist will tell you that! But, coming from Art, his fiery Slavic nature took over. He sought a vendetta.
"If you're going to Seattle, this is where I shall drop you off," he said, peering at the giant sprawling city. Originally, I had planned to stop off in this city, but the sight and size of it was intimidating. Sensing that he lived close to Canada, I said "oh, I'll go as far north as you want." Art was all smiles, and put me up in the his trailer on his property in Ferndale, much closer than the intended target.
In the morning, his wife Margaret made breakfast--homemade croissants, topped with meat (salmon and pork), lettuce, and a rich butter-based spread that was incredible. Also, we had tea augmented with homemade blueberry syrup and Polski ogorki--again, homemade Polish pickles. Everything was delicious, even the forebidding miniature polish sausage--"baby's penis", said Margaret--that she squeezed into my plate from a semi-lubricated red-casing.
If yesterday's conversation was excellent, the conversation at the breakfast table (at 11am) was the apotheosis. We all drank extremely strong coffee, starting with Obama's new tax-rebate policy, and escalating to The World as We See It Now. I argued in favor that two worlds, the virtual and the real, were becoming fused. Art and Margaret agreed, saying how the tool of a cellphone had entrapped those who used it. What was an advantage was now a requirement.
And those who found leisure in online gaming found alternative lives disassociated from responsibility. I told them how my friend Dave found his fiancee from playing World of Warcraft. They were delighted in schadenfreude. It was excellent to be among company that were in their mid-forties, of a liberal but knowledgeable nature, and were very much in love. Art had himself a wonderful life.
His next move, of course, would be a lawsuit towards the city of Ferndale, or Whatcom County. We drove down the main drag again (Main Street)--the bar, the restaurant where he was arrested, small-town strip malls sprawl--and crossing the a small bridge, Art pointed to a sculpture that another contractor had built. His wife and Art began yelling in indignation, rousing one another to a fever pitch. They weren't angry; more out-raged.
"You see that? Seventy-five-thousand dollars!"
His wife laughed from the backseat of the white marshmallow VW fold-up seat.
Looking at it, it was concrete pillars arranged in a semi-clock fashion, with light inscriptions--
"Art!" said Art, in defiance. "Some lady in New York... bureaucrats..."
It was all fairly clear, at least in Art's favor and a benefactor of his hospitality--there was a city swindle going on, a conspiracy to channel taxpayer money to the pockets of those who benefited the same-old same-old.
Art drove me to the Canadian border, and we shook hands. He drove off, his wife gesturing towards the North. I waved goodbye, not aware that they'd let me across...
The unofficial "mayor" of Ferndale, WA is a man by the name of Arthur. Art picked me up out of Salmon Creek, Washington in a white VW bus. To me, it kind of looked like a Marshmallow with wheels. To me, it was 7+ hours of straight conversation.
Art had a wonderful story, about being born an American citizen, but moving back to Poland to be educated underneath Communism. Everything he said had a heavy accent, and very rarely was at a loss for words. It seemed as though his raconteur abilities were always conflicted--his heavy Eastern European accent with his immaculate English. It turns out that he had lived in Ferndale, WA for a number of years, and North America for even more than his European days. However, it is Ferndale, WA in which we begin our story.
Ferndale, WA is small-town America, population approximately 11,000. Art had moved into a property along the main business drag, and stirred controversy with his construction company. In his words, "95 percent of the population probably has never even been to Canada". Ferndale is only 20 miles away. Cosmopolitan and foreign are not things known to Ferndale. When we drove through at night, he pointed to the businesses. "This is the only bar in town," and, "there is where it happened". There was a Haggen supermarket, and "it" is the story.
It turns out that Art had ruffled more than a few feathers with his cosmopolitan attitude, embracing change, and "invading" Ferndale. His most recent production was a skatepark for the young skateboarders. They loved it, and he even went as far as to keep a wooden ramp in front of his house to vex the local bureaucrats, who resisted the need and enthusiasm of the locals. "Never again," he said, elbow-nudging me with a smile, "oh, I did it, but never again!"
From ruffled feathers come the squawk and then the pecking. Pecking, in deed. Art's friend, a former CIA operative, 20 years, had started a restaurant in town along the main drag. In order to celebrate, Art went to the aforementioned Haggen and purchased two 12-packs of beer. On line at the cashier, he noticed a young girl looking sad. Empathetic, especially because he has two teenage daughters, he said, "oh, why are you so sad, young girl?"
Immediately, according to his description, the mother of the young girl began to yell, thinking that Art was trying to seduce their daughter. Art grabbed his 24 beers and moved to another counter to be on the safe side. He purchased them, and made his way to his car. In his car, a large man demanded he step out of the vehicle. That large man had just so happened to be an off-duty police officer, unbeknownst to Art.
Continuing his intent, Art made his way to his friend's new restaurant to drink the beer and celebrate. However, a knock came at the door. It was two police officers, looking to arrest Art for the suspicion of a attempted rape under the auspices of a DUI. Art was thrown in jail, and charged with his crime, which could lead to him, a US citizen, to having to register as a sex offender, tarnishing his business...
(TO BE CONTINUED--I have to catch a bus to Bellingham)
...Worse, because of his international business, Art's travel would be impeded constantly by the customs agent's question, "Sir, have you ever been arrested before?"
So, the bureaucrats had accomplished a part of their mission. Worse, now he had to go to court. Luckily, Art's connections were in his favor, and he was able to secure the best legal defense. Jury selection was an arduous process, especially since two of its more colorful residents--a cop's family and a contractor with over 20 cars parked on his property--were inevitably tied into every facet of the community. However, 11 were selected, and on went the trial.
(If there was a setting like italics or boldface for "bias-filter" based on the description of courtroom event--or, this entire article, it would slime this entire article. But hey, a good story is a good story, and truth is a state of mind. Almost.)
On the stand, each of the prosecution's witnesses went up and related the incident . The mother displayed bipolar tendencies by breaking out of her composed character to yell at Art directly, pointing her finger, from the witness stand. The daughter told her story as an embarrassed teenager would, with an intonation of a rehearsed, propped-up observer of the events; not a victim. The father, without saying too much, was pulled off the stand by the prosecutor for incriminating himself before being cross-examined by the defense attorney. Even the cashier confirmed Art's version of the story, that he, indeed, was the victim.
After 10 minutes, the jury reached a verdict. Art was innocent, and every member of the jury stood to apologize to him directly. His defense lawyer said it was by far and away the most extensive outpouring of sympathy for a defendant in all of his years as an attorney. That, of course, could be subject to bias as well--any woman or pickup artist will tell you that! But, coming from Art, his fiery Slavic nature took over. He sought a vendetta.
"If you're going to Seattle, this is where I shall drop you off," he said, peering at the giant sprawling city. Originally, I had planned to stop off in this city, but the sight and size of it was intimidating. Sensing that he lived close to Canada, I said "oh, I'll go as far north as you want." Art was all smiles, and put me up in the his trailer on his property in Ferndale, much closer than the intended target.
In the morning, his wife Margaret made breakfast--homemade croissants, topped with meat (salmon and pork), lettuce, and a rich butter-based spread that was incredible. Also, we had tea augmented with homemade blueberry syrup and Polski ogorki--again, homemade Polish pickles. Everything was delicious, even the forebidding miniature polish sausage--"baby's penis", said Margaret--that she squeezed into my plate from a semi-lubricated red-casing.
If yesterday's conversation was excellent, the conversation at the breakfast table (at 11am) was the apotheosis. We all drank extremely strong coffee, starting with Obama's new tax-rebate policy, and escalating to The World as We See It Now. I argued in favor that two worlds, the virtual and the real, were becoming fused. Art and Margaret agreed, saying how the tool of a cellphone had entrapped those who used it. What was an advantage was now a requirement.
And those who found leisure in online gaming found alternative lives disassociated from responsibility. I told them how my friend Dave found his fiancee from playing World of Warcraft. They were delighted in schadenfreude. It was excellent to be among company that were in their mid-forties, of a liberal but knowledgeable nature, and were very much in love. Art had himself a wonderful life.
His next move, of course, would be a lawsuit towards the city of Ferndale, or Whatcom County. We drove down the main drag again (Main Street)--the bar, the restaurant where he was arrested, small-town strip malls sprawl--and crossing the a small bridge, Art pointed to a sculpture that another contractor had built. His wife and Art began yelling in indignation, rousing one another to a fever pitch. They weren't angry; more out-raged.
"You see that? Seventy-five-thousand dollars!"
His wife laughed from the backseat of the white marshmallow VW fold-up seat.
Looking at it, it was concrete pillars arranged in a semi-clock fashion, with light inscriptions--
"Art!" said Art, in defiance. "Some lady in New York... bureaucrats..."
It was all fairly clear, at least in Art's favor and a benefactor of his hospitality--there was a city swindle going on, a conspiracy to channel taxpayer money to the pockets of those who benefited the same-old same-old.
Art drove me to the Canadian border, and we shook hands. He drove off, his wife gesturing towards the North. I waved goodbye, not aware that they'd let me across...
